


Possession

by Decepticonsensual



Series: The Festival of Mortilus [9]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8873101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: "The first night Ratchet felt his hand twitch, a vicious panic clutched at his spark, though he couldn’t know then what it signified.  No, the fear that was foremost in his mind at that moment was that his fresh lease on life, his renewed purpose, was a lie after all; that these new hands were about to betray him, just as his old ones had.He was not, in point of fact, entirely wrong.  He just didn’t know how he was right."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thoughtsdemise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsdemise/gifts).



> This one is a request fic, and I'd like to thank Thoughtsdemise for the brilliant concept!
> 
> Warnings: a lot of non-consensual touching (although the exact nature of what's happening is deliberately a little ambiguous), possession/bodily control.

The first night Ratchet felt his hand twitch, a vicious panic clutched at his spark, though he couldn’t know then what it signified.  No, the fear that was foremost in his mind at that moment was that his fresh lease on life, his renewed purpose, was a lie after all; that these new hands were about to betray him, just as his old ones had.

 

He was not, in point of fact, entirely wrong.  He just didn’t know _how_ he was right.

 

To his relief, the hands worked better than ever during surgery the next day, responding with a fluidity he hadn’t experienced since before the war.  They didn’t quite have the sheer strength of his old pair – pulling out a stray piece of shrapnel required a wrench that he felt all the way up his arm – but the fingers were just that bit slenderer than he was used to, capable of manoeuvring in smaller spaces.  It sent a shiver down his struts to remember watching Pharma operate, those same tapered fingertips dancing along twisted metal through sprays of fuel.

 

That night, he felt the twitch again, and an alarming numbness in his right hand.  Before he could sit up, though, his fingers spasmed… and began to inch their way up his thigh, without his consent.  He couldn’t feel his hand from the wrist down, but the heat of those fingertips on his plating – _that_ sensation was practically burned into him.  Because that teasing, enticing touch was horrifyingly familiar.

 

With effort, Ratchet snatched his still-numb hand off his leg.  It felt like dragging a heavy object out of quicksand.  He tucked both hands behind his back and lay on top of them, trying to ignore the implication of what he was doing, trying to still the panicked whirring of his spark.

 

The next night, Ratchet’s hands lay still under the weight of his body, and the next.  On the third night, he was beginning to believe that the entire episode had been a half-awake dream.  After he’d fallen into the berth exhausted but still keyed up, his drowsy body had clearly just responded to his mind’s need for release, and he’d started to caress himself without meaning to.  Exhaustion had collided with unexpectedly vivid memories, and the rest had all been purely his imagination.

 

It was at that moment that one of the hands abruptly darted into a seam at the small of his back, seizing a wire and _twisting,_ and Ratchet started so badly that both hands were able to skitter out from under him like scraplets.

 

Ratchet stared.

 

He lifted his arms towards his face, fingers now dangling limply from the ends.  “Stop it,” he growled.  He did not say a name.

 

Because that would be _ridiculous,_ he told himself.  Not because a part of him was afraid of what might happen if he did.

 

The fingers of the left hand jerked, then reached out towards his face. Ratchet’s optics went wide as  they skated over the curve of his jaw.  A fingertip traced his lower lip, back and forth, before gradually forcing its way inside.

 

\- _memories of Pharma with his head thrown back, thrashing and whimpering in delight as Ratchet sucked on his fingers one by one –_

 

Ratchet curled his glossa against the metal as the finger pumped slowly between his lips.  He could feel his hands again, now, the wet heat of his own mouth, even as he could feel the weight of the finger on his glossa.  He lapped at the metal experimentally, and found a sudden heat pooling behind his panel.  Another finger joined the first, and he ran the tip of his glossa between them, his plating trembling at just how _good_ that felt.

 

And then it came back to him with a shock what he was doing.  Ratchet bit down hard, the hand in his mouth muffling his own shout as he winced in pain.

 

Quick as lightning, the other hand lashed out and grabbed him by the jaw, wrenching his mouth open until his injured fingers could withdraw – which they did, with a slowness that felt almost reproachful.  Then, and only then, did the fingers of the uninjured hand trail down to wrap around his throat.

 

***

Nowadays, Ratchet is good, mostly.

 

He’s good and lets the hands explore his plating in slow, relishing strokes, lets them tease open seams and poke sensitive hinges.  There isn’t an inch of his frame they haven’t invaded, but they seem to like his mouth the best, and Ratchet takes it, suckling obediently on his own fingers and allowing them to scrape the roof of his mouth, to rub over his glossa, to stuff themselves in until he almost gags.

 

Occasionally, he’s too tired or too damned fed up, and he rebels, but that’s more dangerous than he normally has the stomach for – not to him, which wouldn’t bother him, but to his patients.  The night he tried going to bed in handcuffs was followed, the next morning, by a routine surgery in which, twice and for no discernable reason, Ratchet’s scalpel darted from the incision towards the major fuel line in the patient’s throat, only to stop short at the last possible second.

 

(Once, in the berth with Drift, he felt his hands moving of their own accord towards Drift’s neck.  Drift tells him he’s distant lately, and asks in a small voice if he’s done something wrong, and Ratchet hastens to reassure him, but he can’t bring himself to be alone with the other mech again just yet.)

 

He searches database after database for cases of hardwired memories resurfacing in donated parts, or sententio metallico demonstrating behavioural tendencies, only to come up with nothing.  One day soon, he’ll need to call this by its name.  If he does, maybe the information will be out there, somewhere; maybe someone with Cyclonus’s past, or Prime’s connection to the Matrix, will have an inkling of how to stop it.  Maybe, though it sets his teeth on edge to even consider it, some of Drift’s loopy theories about sparks and all things cosmic will pay off.

 

Because this has to stop.

 

Beneath the desk, his hand strokes his leg, almost as if in comfort.

 

Doesn’t it?


End file.
